All Those Poor Devils
by The Cheshire Cheese
Summary: A Jewish sketch artist collects stories of Rick's bar patrons, while waiting for her family. As Yvonne's roommate, Ugarte's mistress, Sascha's bar patron, Sam's friend, Ferrari's customer, the pickpocket's repeated victim, and Annina's consultant, she finds sides to these people few others see.
1. Rick's Cafe American

**A/N: I do not own "Casablanca." I hope to make this story as short as possible, so I'll actually finish it.**

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I am not a noble woman. In the time I spent in Casablanca, I behaved no better than anyone else—the desperate refugees, the crooks who fed on them, the cowardly French policemen who obeyed the Nazis, the indifferent American saloon keeper Rick Blaine—I did as bad or worse than any of them. (Of course none of us were as bad as the Nazis, but I do not count the Nazis as people; my sweet sister Rachel would say they were human beings, only misguided. _She's_ the noble one.) I was only another refugee, drinking away my problems in Rick's Café American, waiting to obtain an illegal exit visa to escape to America.

The only thing that, _perhaps_, made me different from others in that city was that I was an artist. Not a very imaginative one. But I could draw what I saw, and remember it to tell others. I had an artist's curiosity that caused me to ask questions no one else in Casablanca would ask, and I wound up collecting many peoples' stories. Not of anyone terribly important, mind. I never much became involved with the great Victor Laszlo or that beautiful woman who traveled with him, nor Captain Renault or even Rick. I kept myself safely away from "big" people. But the refugees and the criminals I came to know very well.

I came to Casablanca when I was twenty-six, to await my sister and her children. The Nazis had taken her husband. She and her children were in hiding in the cellar of their Christian neighbors, in Nazi-controlled Poland. I, meanwhile, had been traveling around Europe. I'd left Poland at eighteen to explore Europe, originally to find inspiration for my drawing, but soon I was just trying to avoid the Nazis. I wound up in Casablanca, en route to the Americas. I wrote to my sister, saying that she should bring her son and daughter here as soon as possible, and that I would have the means for us to leave when she did. She wrote back, saying that she would be here as soon as she could. When she would reach Morocco, I had no idea. I came to Casablanca with the clothes on my back, and the money in my purse. I would have to find a place to live for the time being, and a way to pay for it. I didn't know what the market for a sketch artist was in this city. Fortunately, I found an apartment almost right away, with a Frenchwoman named Yvonne Le Fleur.

Yvonne was waiting in Casablanca for her wealthy father, a banker, who had sent her there a couple of years earlier. She hadn't heard from him in several months, when I moved in. She worked as a seamstress in the daytime, and spent her nights enjoying the Moroccan nightlife. It was as if there were two of her. When I first arrived at the apartment in the mid-afternoon, and asked Yvonne if I might fill the wanted position of roommate, she was dressed in plain work clothes, with her gold-red hair pined up into a messy bun, having just returned from the market place. We spoke in English, the only language both of us knew.

"Yes of course, come on in." Yvonne had a low soft voice made more elegant by her fluid French accent, a voice I admired—almost envied. "I hope your journey wasn't too troublesome." Her courtesy was genuine, but her tired smile was forced. "I can perhaps help you find work. Come with me to Rick's Café American tonight, and you might find someone. There are always businessmen there, perhaps you can find someone looking for work, Miss…?"

"Sofia Beckman," I said, which was a lie.

Yvonne wasn't stupid. She probably knew that the German name didn't match my Polish accent. But perhaps my Jewish features kept her from prying. So she just smiled sweetly and said, "Pleased to meet you Sofia."

"Call me Sofie."

That evening when Yvonne stepped out of her bedroom, smelling of rose perfume, she was completely transformed. I might have been looking at a movie star, with her glamorous makeup and a glittering white top, her red hair lying in natural curls. Earlier that day, I'd found time to wash my one change of clothes, which consisted of a plain black skirt and a buttoned up white shirt, and my matching black suit coat. I tried to brush my black hair into curls like hers, but failed. I dabbed on some cover-up make-up from my purse, and colored my lips with my three-year-old lipstick, and we were off.

The café was like no place I'd ever been before. I heard every sort of accent I knew of, saw people of every color seated at fine tables, and all interacting with each other, as if the differences of their accents or races were of no more consequence than that of their hair color. I felt instantly safe, for it was so unlike the world the Nazis had created. A black man played the piano, in a gold suit, and was cheered by everyone. I tried not to be caught staring, but I'd never seen a black man in person before. I found it remarkable, how un-remarkable he was; just like any other enthused piano player I'd seen, but just some shades darker. Over here sat an Oriental woman, conversing with an Italian man; over there, a French couple was playing cards with an Arab woman in a Moslem headdress. For the first time in many years, I felt no fear about anyone noticing my large Jewish nose or tanned complexion. I fantasized that this might be what the afterlife would be like. It would make sense, all the souls of the world now—

My head turned sharply when I heard a German accent mention "the Fuher." Some Nazi soldiers were seated at a table, laughing over some drinks. I gasped and grabbed Yvonne's arm.

Yvonne glanced at me, then at the Nazis. "Yes, they come here too. Everyone comes to Rick's. Don't worry Sofie, they cannot harm you. The French control Casablanca, not the Nazis. Just stay out of their way, and don't be caught doing anything illegal."

One of the Nazis' heads began to turn, and I looked away before our eyes could meet. I brought my hand up over my nose, pretending it needed a scratch. Yvonne strode slowly to the bar with total confidence.

Seating herself at the bar and folding her arms on the counter elegantly, she said to the bartender, "Hello Sascha."

The tall lanky man whirled around, and blinked at Yvonne. "Yvonne!" he said with an exaggerated enthusiasm. "You look more beautiful tonight than you ever have!" his accent was Russian.

"You say that every night Sascha," Yvonne gave a laugh. "Sascha, I want you to meet my new friend Sofie. She is living with me now. I've brought her here to find a job in Casablanca. I'll buy a drink for her and myself."

"Oh Yvonne," I shook my head, "You really don't need,"

Yvonne touched my shoulder. "Yes, you need a drink Sofie. You need to loosen up if you hope to have a decent conversation with any employers. Or anyone else you might need to speak with."

I could read the subtext. _Like a black-market visa broker. _

Sascha and I were introduced, and I immediately liked him. His had a very comical personality. It wasn't exactly that he told a lot of jokes, just that so much of what he said had that over-the-top tone of voice, and occasionally was accompanied by some silly sound he'd make, like, "Rick! The Germans—bo-bo-bo-bo-boom!—wish to pay their check!" I felt at times like I was inside a cartoon short, speaking to one of the silly characters. Not halfway through my drink, I was laughing so hard I could hardly breathe.

"Yvonne, your friend, she is turning lovely colors!" Sascha said, which made me laugh harder. "I think I may have killed her!"

Yvonne leaned over the counter and kissed Sascha on the cheek. "I forgive you."

What exactly his relationship with Yvonne was, I wasn't immediately sure. They might have been an item, or perhaps just friends who flirted now and then. Whatever the relationship was, Sascha seemed to take it far more seriously than Yvonne did. She laughed at his jokes and smiled at his compliments, but the few she gave back to him seemed half out of humor. Sascha on the other hand scarcely took his eyes off her.

The three of us conversed for perhaps an hour, with Sascha running back and forth between sentences to serve other patrons. We got into a discussion about the architecture of Morocco, and I mentioned a beautiful mosque I'd seen earlier that day. This lead to a conversation about going to church.

"I never attend church except on Christmas and Easter," Sascha said shaking his head, pouring a drink for a German refugee. "Church is for getting baptized, married and buried. Are you a churchgoing lady, Miss Sofie?"

I nervously glanced behind me at the Nazis. They were engaged in some enthusiastic conversation, taking no notice of me.

"Aaah," Sascha seemed to understand. "We'll not talk about that subject here. Forgive me."

I smiled thankfully at him, fiddling with my cloth napkin. I was silent for a while, letting Yvonne and Sascha talk with each other. Yvonne asked Sascha a lot of questions about the café's owner, Rick. If they asked my opinion on something, I smiled and shrugged, or made some sound, pretending to pay attention.

I finally cleared my throat. "I…need to use the restroom…I'll be back." I glanced at Yvonne, wondering how I could subtly ask her to come along.

Yvonne looked up at me, her face resting on her hand. Her expression changed, as she looked carefully at my face. "Oh. Yes I…think I will join you." She smiled at Sascha and said quietly, "I'll be back."

Someone was in one of the stalls when we arrived, so Yvonne and I pretended to check our hair and makeup in the mirrors. _After_ the other woman had washed her hands and left the restroom, Yvonne glanced my way. "What is it Sofie?"

"I need exit visas." I whispered. "I don't know how this business is conducted here. How I am to find the right people, how I find out who to trust,"

Yvonne nodded. "Of course." She glanced around, as if to be sure no one was in the room with us. "I am no expert at this, but I know of at least two names. One is Captain Renault, the French head of police here. He is a good friend of Rick's, I know. What I hear, he charges a fortune for an exit visa, unless the customer is a beautiful lady."

I turned this over in my mind. Were my sister Rachel in my position, she'd probably have been horrified at the idea. Rachel was the sort who thinks carefully about the meanings of her actions, and whether she'll regret them in the future. I on the other hand…I've never been bothered by many of the same things that others are. I weighted the pros and cons of the situation. I was single, so I felt I had no one to hurt by considering this. Were I to sleep with this Captain Renault, I would obtain the visas for my family, keeping my money for important uses for our journey to America. The experience would also satisfy the sexual curiosity and frustration I'd been feeling for a long time now. And if I should become pregnant, I could simply tell people that my child's father had died in the War. I could still get married someday, give that child a family and…But then, what kind of a person might that child grow to be? I'd have no way of knowing, if I didn't even know the father. I was a risk I'd rather not take.

"Who is the other one?" I asked Yvonne.

"Ugarte." She said. "He is also a friend of Rick's. He will only accept money, as far as I know. Then again, I doubt he's ever been offered anything else. He's not exactly the tall handsome type, you know. He charges much less than Renault, or so I hear. I would highly recommend seeking him out."

"All right," I said. "Can you perhaps point him out to me?"

Yvonne looked to the side, thinking it over. "I think maybe I'll just tell you now what he looks like, so you can find him yourself. He's not difficult to miss. He spends a lot of time at the Roulette wheel, so try looking there. Or just ask people if they know where he is, he is well known here. He's a small man, around your height. Dark. His eyes," she squinted, as if she wasn't entirely sure how to describe him, "He has very large eyes, sort of sad looking. His voice stands out also…sort of…I don't even know," she shook her head.

"What kind of an accent does he have?" I asked. "I don't know what kind of name that is, Ugateh…"

"_Ugarte_. The name is Italian, I believe. But his accent is Hungarian. I don't know what his story is." she shrugged. "Anyway, just keep your eyes opened for a sad, strange little man, and you'll probably see him."

I nodded. "Thank you. Yvonne, thank you so much."

She looked at me, with her small eyes, and moved her mouth in not-quite a smile.

After we exited the restroom, we ran into Rick Blaine. He and Yvonne apparently knew each other.

"Will I see you tonight Rick?" Yvonne asked hopefully.

Rick gently took her chin, and smiled back. "Can you meet me around ten, and we'll grab a bite to eat?"

The date was set, and then they kissed, on the lips. After they broke apart, Yvonne remembered my presence.

"Oh! Rick. My new roommate, Sofie Beckman."

"Please to meet you," Rick nodded politely, and we were awkwardly introduced.

Sascha called Rick over to the bar with some business. Once the café owner's back was turned, Yvonne looked to the ground sadly, pressing her temple with two fingers.

"Sofie," she shook her head. "What you must think of me. I don't want to hurt Sascha you know. I like Sascha. But Rick, one can't help but love him. Oh you must think I'm—"

"Yvonne, I don't…it's not my business. Listen, even if I am thinking some things about you, they probably won't last. My first impressions of everyone I meet are always completely wrong, so I put no stock in them anymore. After I've known you for more than one day, maybe then I'll start to criticize you." I smiled, in a way I hoped was comforting to her.

The corner of Yvonne's mouth made a half-smile for a moment, while she looked away from me vacantly. Yvonne returned to the bar. I meanwhile went to find this Ugarte.

I asked around, and soon found Ugarte by the roulette wheel, sipping a drink. I sat among a small crowd of onlookers, watching the game. Observing Ugarte, I took in all I could of what kind of a man he was, and whether I could trust him. He looked positively exhausted, his large eyes always shaded by heavy lids, his eyebrows turned up as though he were worried about something. But he was smiling and socializing with the others in the game, as though nothing were bothering him, so perhaps his face was just naturally carved that way. My first impression of Guillermo Ugarte was that of a quiet, mild-mannered man, probably taking questionable measures to make a living, but otherwise just another refugee, trying to relax and distract himself from the war. That first impression was, as usual, dead wrong.

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**A/N:**

**I've tried to write this in a way that sounds like the way an immigrant woman, whose first language is not English, might say things. But I've edited these first four chapters, to make the narration easier to read; the idea being that the narrator has become better at speaking English years later, so while her dialogue will be written in broken English, her narration will be written more normally.**

**Most of the back-stories about these characters are just based on my own personal speculation. The situation with Yvonne, Rick, and Sascha was inspired by another fanfic writer's story on this website. As for Ugarte's first name being Guillermo, I just took that from what a few sources on the internet say.**

**The woman in this picture is taken from a screencap from the movie (from a website that I believe is public domain). It's a background woman with no name. But she is seen sitting next to Ugarte when the police come for him, and seems to look with concern when he walks away with them. So I've snagged this nameless background character and made her my Mary Su—er, well-developed, original character. **


	2. The Visas

**A/N: Updates on this story will probably be few and far between; but, it looks like my readers will be too, so I assume it won't be a problem.**

**I do not own "Casablanca."**

**Chapter 2: The Visas **

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I remained at a small table near the roulette wheel for most of that night, among a group of spectators. Yvonne, I saw, was now standing near a potted palm tree, still flirting with Rick. I nursed the drink she had brought me, taking the smallest sips every once in a while, so I'd have a prop the whole night; I wanted to look like I fit in, like I was just being sociable. I wanted to start getting to know people, and fast. I had to learn who was who here, who was safe to talk to, and whom to avoid.

A tall Frenchman ran the game, calling out numbers in a thick accent. Ugarte was on the side of the table opposite me, so I could see him head-on. I took note of the other players as well. A few French policeman, one of whom wore a special uniform and carried himself like a man who thought himself very powerful—Captain Renault? A Moslem man, with his head covered in a turban and veil-like cloth. Some dark Europeans, whom I guessed to be from either Spain or Portugal, or else Eastern Europe like myself. An Oriental woman, dressed in European fashion. Some seemed carefree, while others looked on the game desperately. I was relieved to find no Nazis around the table, and made a note in my mind to find out if this was always the case. But before that, I'd have to know who I could trust to ask, without arousing suspicion from the wrong people.

As my drink relaxed my nervous pounding heart, I began to lose myself in watching these people. Trying to guess the accents I was hearing…looking at the large red flower in the hair of a dark woman sitting in front of me…Senior Ugarte idly lighting a new cigarette on the one still in his mouth, while he gazed around the table with those large tired eyes that-

-stopped on mine.

We had eye contact for only a moment, and then I quickly blinked back down to my drink. When I peeked up again I found him taking a long drag from his (new) cigarette, giving that slow glance around the room that people give, when they're trying to look at you without you noticing.

"Excuse me, Karl," Ugarte said as a doughy waiter with glasses passed by.

"Ah. Another drink already, Senior Ugarte?" the waiter asked cheerfully.

"N—ah well yes, actually, thank you very much. Just another of this one will be fine." He then raised his voice, just loud enough for me to hear, "I may be expecting some people later tonight. If they ask for me, you can tell them I'll be free after this round."

I saw Karl's eyes shift, as if he was about to look into the crowd for whomever Ugarte was referring to, but caught himself. "Certainly." He left to fetch Ugarte's drink.

All right. So I'd wait out the rest of this round and then discuss my visas with Ugarte. Then I'd know how much money I would need to save up, and what sort of a job I should begin to search for. Perhaps he would even know of some leads for me.

After the round ended, Ugarte excused himself from the game and pulled up a chair at my table. "Excuse me madam," he smiled and blinked rapidly, with a staged politeness. "Is this seat taken?"

Trying to keep my face calm, I scanned the café quickly to be sure no Nazis were watching, then shook my head. "No, no. Please."

By the time he'd sat down his innocent cover was gone. His face was now somber, his silken voice low and quiet. "You need help with papers, I presume."

I hesitated nervously, then gave a small nod. "Yes, Signor Ugarte." I used his name, just to be sure I had the right man.

He took out his cigarette and exhaled. "How many."

"Four," I said, barely above a whisper. "One for myself. One for my sist—"

He furrowed his brow and made a little waving gesture with his hand. "I do not want details madam—"

My fists tightened on the table, and I hissed, "—for my sister Rachel and her young children, Anchel and Sarah, who are six and four."

He glared at me a moment, fiddling with his cigarette. "These papers are _difficult_ to forge," he whispered, almost angrily. "They take _time_. And they are not cheap."

"How much."

He told me the price and I grew a tad sick inside.

"…_but_,"he gave a small shrug, "That is assuming you were to purchase them from Captain Renault," and he gestured towards the French captain at the roulette table with an eye-roll I'd never seen on anyone before, nor anyone since knowing Ugarte. "…or most of our other brokers." His eyes rolled again towards someone in the crowd I couldn't see. "_I_ can get all four of these visas fixed for you for _half_ that price."

I wondered if I should trust what he said, but then remembered Yvonne's advice. "How much time would you give me to save up for this?"

"I am in no hurry. You take all the time you want. I'm going nowhere." He lifted his drink to his lips.

"Why not?"

He looked up at me under his eyebrows.

"You can fix an exit visa for yourself any time you want. Why not leave this place and go to America yourself?"

"Oh I plan to! But why rush." Seeing my stare, he added, "Oh yes, for some people it is a very big rush, excuse me miss. But for me, well I'm in no…_immediate_ danger. Why leave now when I could, eh, help a poor refugee like yourself."

"Will you save those visas for me? Until I have the money?" I leaned forward desperately.

"I won't give them away, but I cannot promise that—"

"Because if not I am sure that a more expensive broker would—"

"Be my guest Madame." Ugarte said coldly.

I watched him rise from his chair, and that mocking politeness returned. "If you want anything from me, I am in this café almost every night. If I'm not here you can check with Signor Ferrari at the Blue Parrot and he can almost certainly direct you to me. Now if you'll excuse me, I've other business to attend to."

Watching him return to the roulette wheel, I found myself disgusted with him. I thought him a greedy, bug-eyed weasel, who'd rather stay in this Nazi hellhole Casablanca for the opportunity to suck blood from the Jews and Gypsies and Pols and whomever else, than to go to someplace decent like America.

My throat was swelling, and I knew tears would soon come. I hurried back to the ladies room. Locked behind the stall door, I found myself overwhelmed with panic. Rent, food, clothing, exit visas…soap, so I could smell like a normal person and not attract the Nazis with body odor….money for taxis, so I could get around town…where on Earth did Yvonne and the others get their money? I wiped the tears away, and ran through the options in my head. Perhaps Rick, or someone else with a cafe, could use a maid. Perhaps the apartment building Yvonne and I lived in needed a maid. Maybe that Blue Parrot friend of Ugarte's—what was his name?—maybe he knew ways to get money, even if it wasn't legal…Maybe my sketches…I was more than good enough to sell, I'd been doing it already for years. But here in Casablanca, where refugees were selling their jewels and furs to pay for visas and the bare essentials of life, who would spend money on a picture, even a nice one? Perhaps I could play up on the hopeless situation… "Any one of your family may be dead tomorrow…why not purchase a beautiful picture to remember everyone by?" I was sickened to find myself even entertaining this idea. Maybe that was just what Casablanca did to everyone, what it had done to Ugarte…

A job. Time to start asking around for a job. Time to return to the crowd at the roulette wheel.

I asked around the café for leads on jobs, and got a few answers, which I wrote on a paper napkin. When I was too exhausted to continue I asked Sascha for Yvonne.

"She's ah….she's left." Sasha said, drying a glass. "She told me to let you know, not to wait for her if you want to go home. Here," he pulled some coins out of his pocket. "She left this for you, to call a cab if you needed."

While I pocketed the money, he began whistling a happy tune to himself, obviously trying to distract himself from something unpleasant. Watching him, and knowing Yvonne was undoubtedly with Rick, it made me sad for him.

"Thank you Sascha. You and Yvonne have been been so kind to me tonight, I appreciate it more than you can ever know."

We bid each other goodnight, and I left.

I was numb with fear the entire ride home. I was still so, when walking up the steps to the apartment, seeing a Nazi in every shadow. When I was finally inside the apartment I quickly locked and bolted the door. Then, hesitantly, I removed the bolt, remembering Yvonne would need to get inside. I pulled off my clothes and climbed into bed wearing my underpants (I had come with the clothes on my back, mind), and cried on and off, before falling asleep. My dreams were a jumble of anxieties from the day, and Ugarte's cold indifference tormented me throughout them the entire night.

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**A/N: Cheesy? The narration and dialogue in this story is cheesy? It's based on a black-and-white classic. What did you expect, "Seinfeld" dialogue?**


	3. Yvonne Le Fleur

**A/N: I do not own "Casablanca."**

**Chapter 3: Yvonne LeFleur **

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Yvonne felt terrible about leaving me alone that night, but I assured her it was the least of my worries. Still, she promised to make it up to me, by helping me find a job. My anxiety over the job search ended only four days after that first night in Casablanca, when Yvonne helped me obtain a position in the market place, stringing beads for a Moslem merchant. Signor Haddad spoke just enough English to instruct me and tell me my pay, but getting to know him as a person would prove difficult, as I spoke no Arabic and he spoke no Polish or German. Still, he was one of the friendlier people I'd come across so far, and I was grateful for that.

"Yvonne I cannot tell you enough, thank you!" I told my friend, over a glass of water at Rick's Café. (I was not yet prepared to spare money on drinks.)

We sat at a small table, along with two friends of Yvonne's: Rita, a young, petite Spanish refugee with thick dark curls, whose husband gambled at the roulette wheel; and Brigitte, a blonde, modestly-dressed French girl, who'd been born in Casablanca. We'd come to the café for supper that evening, and had spent two hours gossiping like schoolgirls.

"You got the job yourself Sofie." Yvonne drained her own shot. "I only referred you."

"I wouldn't have gotten it without your reference." I grinned, feeling the fabric of my new white dress between my fingers. "It's so nice, to at last have a fresh change of clothes!" I leaned over the table, my brown eyes wide with excitement. "All I have to do is slide those beautiful beads onto strings all day, and avoid the Nazi pigs. And in a month or so I should have the money for that _rat_ Ugarte. Sooner if I can make money off of my sketches."

Yvonne looked at me, and then looked over my shoulder. "Rick," she smiled, and I realized the café's owner was standing over us, "Sofie didn't mean anything against your friend,"

"I don't have friends Yvonne." Rick said, unmoved. "You know that. I'm just checking up on my customers is all. Are you ladies enjoying your evening?"

We assured him we were fine, but it soon became evident that Rick wasn't particularly interested in any of us except Yvonne. She leaned with her arm draped across her chair's back, holding Rick's hand, while he told her how his business was running. Rick made some snide comments about some difficult customers he'd had earlier that day, and Yvonne listened with dazzled eyes, as if listening to some sailor's story. While they flirted, there came an awkward silence among the rest of us. Rita finally turned to me and asked, "So you sketch Sofie? Let me see!"

I opened my purse and took out my drawing pencils, and some folded scrap paper I'd salvaged from the apartment complex. It was all I needed to treat Rita and Brigitte to a free portrait for each of them. (I did not feel right, at the moment, asking my friends for money.) After Rick broke away from Yvonne to return to his business, she too took interest in my work.

Cocking her head over my drawing of Rita, she asked, "Sofie, can you draw from photographs?"

"Certainly."

"Oh if you could, I would love to have a few, perhaps some time when it's convenient. I'd even pay you."

Playfully I smacked her arm. "Oh don't you dare— _Oh!_"

Someone had collided with my chair, almost knocking me out of it.

"Madame, my most sincere apologies!" a tall, lanky man with an accent I couldn't identify was patting my arm, with a regretful look on his face. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," I said. "Thank you. I, I apologize. Perhaps I should bring my chair closer to the table, in a crowded café like this,"

A dramatic look came over the man's face, and he leaned in close, whispering in a warning voice. "You cannot be too careful _anywhere_ in Casablanca, Madame. In a crowd like this there are vermin and vultures who would pray on innocent young newcomers like the four of you, and think nothing of it!"

"I've noticed." I said flatly, thinking again of Signor Ugarte. "But as long as I can avoid the Nazis,"

"The Nazis!" With the way his eyes widened, and how he pronounced it "_Nat-zees_!" I had to bit my lip quick and cover my mouth, to keep from giggling. He pointed across the room, and we all turned to look. "Right there, near the front of the café! The Nazis almost always sit there, and they always keep to their own. Easy to spot, easy to avoid. But the vultures of Casablanca," he made a noise through his teeth, shaking his head sadly.

Yvonne, Rita, and Brigitte were all watching the strange man, almost as if trying to decide whether or not he was a hallucination. He took no notice of their stares, but looked around the table and made a gesture to us like tipping his hat, though he wasn't wearing one. "Good day, madams."

"Good day," I said, in a confused daze.

The other girls nodded goodbye, and Yvonne politely corrected him, "Good night."

"What an unusual person." Rita said. "What were we talking about?"

"Sofie's sketches." Brigitte said.

"Sofie please," Yvonne said, "Let me pay you, just something. Money has never been as much of an object for me as for most girls. Won't you let me pay you for a sketch of my father, my mother and my brother. Is that alright?"

"Well," I opened my purse to put back my drawing pencils, and that was when I saw that my wallet was gone. Thank God, most of my money was safe in our apartment. But all I'd had left over after buying dinner that night, all of that was lost. I looked back over my shoulder, trying to find the tall lanky pickpocket, but he had vanished. "Yes," I said slowly. "Yes you can pay me something if you want."

When I looked back, all three girls' faces were frozen, staring at my purse. Then they reached quick for their own purses. Rita and Brigitte hadn't lost anything, but Yvonne's bracelet had been taken.

"Those 'diamonds' were glass anyway." She said scornfully. "The joke is on him." she looked around the rest of us, and added, "Of course I wouldn't bring my real jewels to a place like this. Excuse me," she left the table and made for the ladies room.

I caught Rita and Brigitte exchanging a glance. "I should check on Marco," Rita said, and left to find her husband and the roulette wheel, leaving Brigitte and I alone.

"You don't think those really were diamonds Yvonne lost?" I asked Brigitte.

"No of course not," Brigitte moved a blond curl out of her face. "Yvonne had to sell most of her real jewels to pay for her apartment, after she stopped hearing from her father. But Yvonne fancies herself a high class lady, and she wants to be treated like one. I play along to keep her happy. If someone can manage to find a bit of happiness here in Casablanca, I'm not about to ruin it."

"Yah," I nodded thoughtfully. "Brigitte, what was Casablanca like before the Nazis arrived? Was it a nicer place?"

"Oh yes, yes, much nicer," the French girl gazed vacantly out the window, no doubt seeing an earlier Casablanca in her mind. "Of course the world always seems nicer when we are children, I suppose. But the fear, the terror that the Nazis have brought here, there was none of that. My mother and father cried, when we heard on the radio that France had surrendered…" her eyes were glistening. "After we became used to the fear, these refugees began pouring in from every corner of the world, and then the guilt came." Without moving her head, Brigitte's eyes darted around the café, at the various refugees. "We enabled this, France did."

Guilt. That was something I knew little about, at the time. As a Jew, in that time and period in history, I was used to always being the victim. The feeling of responsibility for someone more threatened than myself, well that was a feeling I had not been introduced to until quite recently. Not until I'd come to Casablanca and realized I had to save my little sister and her children.

"I suppose," I said to Brigitte, "You feel as if your home country failed the world."

A thin tear was trailing down her cheek.

"Oh Brigitte, I did not mean to—"

Brigitte shook her head and wiped the tear away. "Do not apologize." she smiled weakly. "It is those stinking Nazis that ruined everything."

"So just don't upset them." Yvonne's had returned. She moved around the table to pick up her coat. "I plan to simply stay on their good side, until…"

"Until what?" I said flatly.

Yvonne popped one eyebrow and shrugged. "I'm tired. Are you two staying?"

We both said no, and joined Yvonne to leave. I watched Yvonne kiss Rick goodnight, holding on to his hand a moment before parting. Brigitte lived with her parents in an apartment across the street from our complex, so we all shared a cab and split the cost. In the cab, Yvonne boasted to the driver about her relationship with the café's owner.

"It is a nice café," the driver said conversationally. "I have many times been there with my wife."

"It's more than nice," Yvonne was watching the city, outside the window. "It is the center of the city! Everybody comes to Rick's. Rick knows everyone worth knowing in Casablanca."

I turned to Brigitte (I sat in the middle, between the two French women), and saw her looking away, almost rolling her eyes.

When we reached home, Yvonne stepped out of the cab with the air of a queen exiting a carriage, holding her coat around her like it was an elegant fur. She waved the driver goodnight and thanks. Brigitte bid us goodnight politely, but clearly had much her mind. I ran a quick Hebrew prayer through my mind for her, though what exactly I was praying to happen for her, I did not know.

* * *

"He looks quite different from you," I said without looking up from my work.

Yvonne and I were in our bedroom, our beds on opposite walls. I sat on my bed, with a large old book propped on my lap, serving as a drawing board. It was close to midnight, but neither Yvonne nor myself were tired. I'd already drawn a picture of her father, and was now working on one of her brother. He seemed a few years older than Yvonne, with dark, almost black hair. He wore a French soldier's uniform.

"He is really my half-brother," Yvonne was folding up her clothes, now wearing her nightgown. "But Christophe has been a brother to me my entire life. His mother died giving birth to him, and our father remarried to mine shortly after. She died only a few years ago. Papa and Christophe are both very protective of me," she sat down on the bed, and lit up a cigarette. "Would you care for a cigarette Sofie?"

"Hmm? Oh…thank you, but not now while I'm drawing." I was finished mapping out her brother's facial proportions on the paper, and started now on the eyes.

Yvonne turned her head towards the window to exhale her smoke, so as not to get ash near my drawing. "Christophe says in his letters that he's hoping to transfer to Casablanca, to watch over me. But first he hopes to help secure our father's release from prison."

I stopped drawing, and looked up at her. Yvonne was still facing towards the window.

"Prison?" I asked timidly. "What kind of, of prison?"

She gave a small shrug. "Just the local jail. His loyalties are being questioned, since he has many times spoken out against the Nazis." She swallowed. "He's been ill, Christophe says."

I blew some pencil dust from the paper. "When they come to Casablanca, will you all get on a plane to Lisbon and leave?"

"I don't know yet," she twirled her cigarette a bit. "I do not know what they plan to do, or what Rick plans to do. You know I've told Christophe about Rick in my letters, and he says Rick sounds like a great man. Just the sort of man who could keep me safe, and provide for me."

Were Yvonne and Rick that close? It seemed to me that their relationship had been only a casual flirt. "Have you and Rick been together long?"

"Not yet. But Sofie," Yvonne turned and looked at me, her face serene. "I love him. He is the best man I have ever met. Handsome. Chivalrous. He _owns_ himself. No one tells him what to do. Even the Nazis."

This I doubted, but I said nothing.

"He treats me like a _lady_, Sofie." Yvonne furrowed her brow. "You know how long it has been, since I have been treated like a real lady? When I first came to Casablanca I was no longer the daughter of Gy LaFleur. I was just another refugee, a lone girl with nothing. But now that I am with Rick, I feel like Yvonne LaFleur again."

Carefully, and without looking up from my work, I said, "When we met, Yvonne, I didn't know where you came from. But I knew that you were beautiful, and that you owned yourself. You carry yourself like a lady. I'm sure anyone could see that,"

"But I am so, because of Rick," Yvonne assured me.

"Well Sascha…he treats us like we are ladies," I knew it shouldn't concern me, but I my curiosity was burning, as was my concern for the poor bartender who had been so kind to me.

After a moment of silence, Yvonne said, "Sascha is a sweet man. He was the first person to welcome me to Casablanca. I cannot help but to enjoy his company. At times, I almost wish…" her eyes twitched thoughtfully. She leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Sofie what about you? Where do you come from?"

I licked my lips, wondering how much I should reveal to her. "I was born in Poland. Most of my family…lived there. I left to travel Europe, and just sell my art." I began scribbling in the black of Christophe's hair, in the picture. "I lived cheap. Small apartments, sometimes a roommate. But it was fine for me. I thought my family would be safe in Poland." I didn't look up at Yvonne, but I saw her shadow on the floor. She was listening, still as a statue, the smoke trailing slowly from her cigarette. "When living in France—before the Nazis invaded—I received a letter from my little sister Rachel. The Nazis were passing all sorts of new laws in Poland. My parents had been taken by the Nazis, and no one had again heard from them. She wrote to me the whispers she'd heard, of the concentration camps. That was where our parents went. Two old people. The Nazis were rounding up Jews, randomly selecting people from homes and ordering that they report to be sent away. Rachel's husband Vladek—I knew him a little, he was a nice man, and I considered him a friend. He loved to argue, Vladek. When I came to visit he and I would argue politics, and about which pictures were the best in theaters." The barest hint of a smile touched my face. "But he argued also with the Nazis when they tried to take him away. Rachel said in her letter that they shot him, right there in the street. In front of her and the children. The neighbors." I shook the remaining pencil shavings off of the portrait. "There, finished."

Yvonne slowly came down from the bed, to look at my work. "It looks just like him," she smiled. "I will look to buy a frame, for all of these pictures."

She looked uncomfortable as we climbed into bed.

"I must seem despicable," Yvonne said out of the blue.

I rolled over to face her. "What?"

"Here you are, trying to save your family. And I'm just sitting here waiting for mine to come save me."

"Yvonne I don't find anyone despicable except the Nazis."

After another silence, Yvonne asked me, "Sofie, have you ever been in love with two people?"

"I…my preferences in men are….different. The men I find interesting enough to be with a few and far between. I don't think I would find two such men at once." I suddenly realized that this could be taken the wrong way, that Yvonne might think I was implying something about her character. "But I have had plenty of friends who have fallen in love with two men at once, yes," I lied. "It is not uncommon. It happens."

Yvonne made a sound, and nothing more was said that night. Whether I'd succeeded in comforting her, I couldn't tell. I tried to make myself understand what Yvonne must have been feeling, so I wouldn't judge her harshly. But try as I might, I couldn't picture it. To be treated like "a lady" since childhood, instead of a "dirty Jew." To find two men in right in the same café who perked your interests, and who were both interested in you. For a girl like me, homely looking and with such odd tastes, the concept was neigh impossible to grasp. I felt...almost a _bitterness_, like Yvonne was a spoiled brat who had everything. Beauty, money, admirers. But no, that was wrong. She was fearing for her family, just as I did mine. And all she had done for me….I owed Yvonne _everything. _And no matter what she did, no matter how many men she flirted with and took advantage of, I decided I would not allow myself to care. To judge a person for that, when there were _Nazis _around, it was laughable. I wouldn't judge anyone anymore, no matter how despicable—not Yvonne; not Rick, with his indifference to the War; not even that greedy slime ball Ugarte—as long as they weren't with the Nazis. And that thought helped me sleep better than I had in weeks.


	4. Guillermo Ugarte

**I do not own "Casablanca." If I did, Peter Lorre's role would have been much bigger!**

**I also do not own "The Maltese Falcon," from which I borrowed a few elements for Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet's character (no, not the gayness, just some lines and facial expressions).**

**Chapter 4: Guillermo Ugarte**

* * *

Three weeks into my stay in Casablanca, I had fallen into a routine. I worked with those beads in the market place six days a week. Signor Haddad did not force me to, but I chose it; the job was easy, and I needed as much money as I could take. When shop closed up at sundown, I would return to the apartment and clean myself up. Yvonne usually was asleep when I got home; her work hours were about the same as mine, but she liked to stay out later than I did, so she caught her sleep up between work and Rick's Café. If I wasn't feeling sociable, I would stay home and do some chores around the apartment, and sketch. Yvonne would wake up soon after I arrived and doll herself up for Rick's Café, and while she did we'd talk a bit. Then she'd leave, and not return until I was asleep. But at least twice a week, when I just needed to forget about everything, I would go with her. I'd get out the few items of clothing that I had, and she'd help me to arrange an outfit.

On this particular Friday, I settled on a dark blue suit-dress with a white flower over one breast. Yvonne styled my hair, rolling some of it over my forehead, and we walked to Rick's café. The walk was twenty minutes, but it wasn't very dark yet. Casablanca, at this hour, did not frighten me. I enjoyed these walks, looking at the Moslem buildings and the melting pot of people bustling about. I remember how the light from the street lamps bounced off the glistening black dress Yvonne wore. Most of the policemen on the streets were French, at least at this hour, so that too made me more comfortable.

"Keep an eye out ladies," Sascha warned us, as he poured our shots. "Your pickpocket is here tonight. He made for the roulette wheel, not five minutes ago."

"Talking about the roulette wheel," I mused, "Is Signor Ugarte down there yet, do you know?"

"I believe so," Sascha said casually.

He didn't ask me what business I wanted with Ugarte.

I gave a small nod. "I'll be back."

I took my drink, and casually made my way to the roulette wheel. I now had the money for two exit visas, right in my pocket. I hoped to purchase them from Ugarte now, so that I would at least have ensured passage to America for my young niece and nephew.

My hatred for Ugarte, as intense as it had been at first, had now lessened into practically nothing. As I had socialized more and more around the cafe, I'd come to realize that no one could provide a quality letter of transit for every one of these poor refugees, not without some kind of payment to keep it up. I only hoped that Ugarte would speak more kindly this time than the last, or I might lose all of the confidence I'd worked so hard to gain.

"No, I am not betting all of it, not tonight," Ugarte was leaning over the table, reaching into his pocket for some money. "I have payments to make, yet."

"You won't risk it, even for the chance to win all of this?" an Italian gambler taunted.

Ugarte gave a short, raspy chuckle. "If I wish to risk having my right hand chopped off, perhaps."

The other gambler apparently understood what this meant. "Say no more, say no more!"

I leaned against a pillar and sipped my drink, trying to meet Ugarte's eyes but failing. When it came Ugarte's turn to make a move in the game, that pickpocket was there, leaning over him.

"If you want my advice mousier," the pickpocket threw his long arm around Ugarte, "I would recommend that you…" his voice trailed off, as Ugarte slowly rolled his sad-looking eyes up at him. It was a sarcastic expression, one which said he was saddened and exhausted by the pickpocket's stupidity. "But of course," the pickpocket added, "If you don't want my advice…"

Ugarte gave the pickpocket that rapid blinking expression of his, as he took a drag from his cigarette, then made his point by blowing some smoke into the pickpocket's face. The pickpocket backed away and bowed politely, before hurrying away from the table.

The Frenchman running the game asked Ugarte how much money he wanted to bet for this round.

"Let's see what I have," Ugarte stuck his hand into his back pocket, and froze. His face fell, and for a second his eyes looked so sad, I felt sorry for him. Then they narrowed, thoughtfully, and he composed himself. "Excuse me, I ah, have something to take care of. I'll be back for the next game."

Ugarte calmly left the table, not bothering to pick up his hat. I set down my drink and followed him. At first I was just hoping to catch up to him, and ask if we could speak later tonight. But the closer he came to the doorway of the café, the quicker and more determined his pace became. I wondered if he knew I was following him. But then I saw the pickpocket standing near the doorway, speaking to the doorman. He glanced Ugarte's way, and then suddenly bid the doorman goodbye and hurried onto the street. Ugarte hurried out the door with long strides, and once he hit the street he bolted. For a thousand and one reasons, I had to follow.

The pickpocket turned down an alley, before any of the police on the streets could take notice of him. Ugarte chased after him, and I chased Ugarte. By the time I reached the alley, the pickpocket was out of sight. Ugarte was standing with his back towards me, looking both ways across the street on the other side. He held something in his right hand….

I ducked quickly behind a pile of Arabic-styled baskets lined along one wall. I saw Ugarte's shadow slowly come back down the alley. I didn't look up. Suddenly, he grabbed one of the baskets and threw it, with such force that it bounced off the opposite wall. Several other baskets tumbled out of place. In my shock I turned, and saw Ugarte grab the pickpocket by the lapels; the thief had been hiding under that pile of baskets. Ugarte slammed him against the wall, taking no notice of me. I stood and backed away quickly, against the opposite wall. The pickpocket saw me, but didn't pay me much mind. Ugarte was pressing something against the pickpocket's ribcage, and in the shadows on the ground I saw it was a pistol.

"You took something of mine." Ugarte's voice was low and flat, as his fist tightened around the pickpocket's shirt. "I want it back. _Now_."

"Y-yes, of course," the pickpocket stammered. "Right, here, yes," he moved his hands toward his own pocket…

…and then grabbed Ugarte's wrist. The pickpocket yanked Ugarte's arm up, twisting his wrist, so that the smaller man gave out a loud raspy whimper. He wrenched the gun from Ugarte, and clubbed him in the face with it. He then threw both Ugarte and the pistol to the ground. The pickpocket stepped over him with his lanky legs, and gave me a happy nod.

"Evening madam," he said, before sprinting out of the alley.

Ugarte lay there in a crumbled heap, squeezing his wrist, while blood flowed from his nose. His eyes were squeezed shut, looking agonized and defeated. I truly pitied him there, despite how much anger he had caused to me, and despite how frightened I had been of him only moments before. You must think it strange, for me to feel so sorry for a crook like him. But you know, I was an artist, so befriending questionable people was really nothing new for me. Ugarte was just a crook of a higher level than I was used to.

I walked across the alley to where his gun lay, my heels clopping against the cobblestone. I gingerly picked up the pistol—I'd never handled a gun before. I held it on its side with the barrel pointed away from me. _Odd_, I thought, that the pickpocket had just left the gun, instead of stealing it. _Very_ odd.

Ugarte gave a start when he noticed me. He was looking at the gun in my hand.

"S-Signor Ugarte. You, ah, dropped this," I said stupidly, and extended it to him.

It occurred to me that had I wanted to, I could have demanded my four exit visas at gunpoint. That was probably what Ugarte had expected. His eyes twitched suspiciously, and he didn't move. Not certain what else to do, I lifted one large pocket in his cream-white suit and tucked the gun inside.

"I wanted to speak to you about my letters of transit, Signor." I kept my voice low, and absent of emotion. "I have now the money to pay for two of them. I would like to purchase them as soon as possible, instead of waiting to have all four them all at once. May I do that?"

His face relaxed a bit, and he looked away from me. "If I'm not dead tomorrow…"

_The payment he had to make. _

I folded my hands across my lap, and looked at him inquisitively. "I thought it was only going to be your right hand."

"Perhaps... It depends on his mood."

"On whose mood?"

Ugarte said nothing. Groaning, he rolled over and pushed himself up with his good hand. "…is not the business for women to be involved with," he mumbled.

"I can tell him," I assured him. "I'm a witness. I'll tell him you were robbed. Then he can chop off the _pickpocket's _right hand, instead of yours." The idea of that actually sickened me, and I hoped to God that the pickpocket would never get caught.

I took out my handkerchief, and handed it to him. "Let me go with you. Would he hurt a woman?"

Ugarte pressed the handkerchief against his bloodied nose. "No. No, he never…His quarrel is only with other criminals, like myself. He won't harm you, I'll take you to him."

Without looking at me he stuck out his free arm. Awkwardly, I hooked my arm around his, and he led me down the street. As we walked, he spoke quietly to me. His odd silken voice felt even softer so close to my ear, it was almost enchanting.

"You are to ask no questions—" he shut his mouth, as we passed a French policeman. "Speak only when spoken to. And avoid certain subjects. He disdains non-Italians, and is not fond of Jews," he eyed my face warningly. "Fortunately for you, he has a soft spot for women. But even so, you should say nothing of this night to anyone, ever, for as long as you wish to live."

"Yes," I said curtly. "I understand."

I had to wonder if Ugarte was really trusting me, a woman he barely knew, with something so secretive…or if he was only saying this to ensure that I behaved the way he wanted me to. Either way, I decided to obey him.

He took me to a building that seemed, for lack of a better word, primitive. It was built from clay or plaster, with a crudely constructed canopy of thick sticks over the doorway. A parrot sat in a circular swing, just above the doorway. The building's name was written in English: "The Blue Parrot." I found this name a bit ironic, given that the mascot pruning its feathers on that swing was green. I loved animals, and I reached with one hand to touch the bird. Ugarte suddenly grabbed my arm, and glared fiercely at me under his tired eyelids. I quickly withdrew my hand. Satisfied, he led me through the doorway, through a waterfall of beaded chains.

The Blue Parrot was another café, but one that served quite a different company than Rick's. My eyes and nose were hit instantly with the incense and drugs that filled the air. Most of the staff seemed to be Arab, and worked tirelessly, almost fearfully. The patrons were mostly middle-aged white men, with Italian accents. They spoke loudly and crudely, and I heard many curse words. The only other females I saw were a few questionable looking women sitting with much older male companions, and a young Arab girl dancing in the corner, in a costume that was very extravagant but also very small. I knew, now, what kind of business Ugarte was involved with.

Ugarte motioned to an Arab waiter, and spoke rapidly to him in Italian. Hearing an already beautiful language, on that silken voice…

I was jerked out of my girlish thoughts, as Ugarte took me to a small table under a window. He had me sit down next to him, leaving the seat across from us empty for the man he was to speak with. Gold streetlight cast a shadow of the blinds from the window, over us both, reminding me of bars in a prison. Ugarte checked the handkerchief I'd given him. (His nose had stopped bleeding.) He folded it up and kept it clasped in his hand, on the table.

The striped shadows from the blinds were blocked out, as an enormous man took a seat at our table. I recognized him, having seen him often in Rick's Café. At the moment I couldn't recall his name, and I'd never before spoken to him. He was European, tall, and extremely fat (fatter than an American, even). He wore a red fez hat, that I thought looked quite comical on him, but I held my tongue. He gave me a serious glance, then looked at Ugarte…accusingly?

"Ugarte," the man spoke with a crisp English accent. "I hope you don't expect me to accept _this _as your payment to me?" his small eyes darted again my way.

Ugarte grabbed my arm tightly, and he looked at the large man with fury in his eyes—even a hint of a snarl.

_How sweet!_

"Signor Ferrari," _Of course,_ that_ was his name_. "This woman witnessed me lose my money to a thief in the streets. She insisted that I allow her to tell you what she saw, so you wouldn't have to take my word for it."

The fat man chuckled. "A wise decision on your part, Ugarte. Your word is certainly not worth much. I would trust the words I hear my parrot squawking over most of what _you_ say." Ferrari turned then to me. "I will not ask your name miss, as I do not expect to be speaking much to you again after tonight." I grew cold with fear. Ferrari's mouth did not move, but he frowned at me with his eyes. "Come now, I meant only that you are not involved in my business, and that I do not expect you and I to cross paths again. I'm sure after you leave, Ugarte will fix you a visa for America, and you'll be safe and sound in no time. Assuming that is, that you can convince me to spare this little weasel's life."

I opened my mouth to speak, but closed it, not sure if I'd been given permission to say something.

"You have my permission to speak, miss." Ferrari said, still staring me in the eye. "Tell me what you saw when Ugarte was robbed."

I swallowed. "I was standing near the roulette wheel. I saw Ugarte gambling." I quickly added, "But I heard him clearly say, he could not gamble all if it. He said, 'I cannot bet all of it tonight, I have a payment to make yet.' He said it to an Italian gentleman, short man with glasses, in a pinstriped suit, so you may ask him if you wish. He was balding…ah, tanned skin…"

"How very precise you are," Ferrari was watching me with one eyebrow arched high. "Go on."

I described then the rest of what I'd seen, leaving out no details at all, except for the schoolgirl feelings I'd had for Ugarte's eyes and voice. When I reached the part about Ugarte being beaten by the pickpocket, Ferrari laughed again, longer this time. I made to go on with the story, but Ferrari motioned for me to stop, still laughing.

"No no, this is more than enough." He pressed his hand against his temple, and I actually heard him snort with laughter. "That is too much like Ugarte. If he had fabricated some lie for you to tell me, I'm sure he would have been robbed and beaten by ten Nazis, after killing one or two of them of course. Oh Ugarte…you aren't much use for me, but you are a character. Quite a character." He composed himself. "Well, I keep a parrot around for simple amusement. Why not a rat." He pushed himself up from the table (a feat that must have taken much strength). "I'm giving you an extra week to bring me the money, Ugarte, just because I so enjoyed that story. Go back to Rick's café and try to gamble some of it back."

Ugarte and I stood up from the table. Ugarte gazed slowly up at Ferrari, his expression blank, and nodded. We then left the Blue Parrot. It was pitch black now outside, above the streetlamps. I took Ugarte's arm, and he glanced at me, apparently having forgotten for a moment that I was there.

"I don't know very well, this part of the city," I said.

He moved his arm for me to hook mine around, and he led me down the street, at a much slower pace that when we'd arrived. Few people were now on the streets. Most of the questions I wanted to ask him, I did not want to say in the presence of these policeman and sparse night goers walking about.

"What you said, earlier tonight," I asked quietly, and took notice of a French officer nearby. "The book you wanted to sell to me. As I said, I have the money. May I have it tonight?"

"I'll have to fetch it from my apartment." Ugarte's voice was even more quiet and calm than usual. "I'll walk you back to Rick's, and meet you up with it later tonight."

_No, oh no you don't, you little tit. _I was going to have those two visas right now, I was going to watch him fill them out and make sure they were legitimate.

"Why not let me make for you some coffee or something, while you, while you look for the book," I offered, my voice light.

Slowly he looked at me, his brow furrowed.

"I make good coffee," I said, which I thought was true. "And I would very much like that book, as soon as possible. Even if I have to wait a bit for you to find it. I want to be sure, you understand?"

His eyes darted around my face for a moment, and for some reason, the rest of my body too. At the time, I was far too distracted to consider what this meant.

He muttered something in, I think, Hungarian. It was the tone of voice people use when saying something like "What the hell," or "why not." Ugarte looked at me, then moved his head towards the left, working one eyebrow. "I live down that way, only a block from here. Between Rick's and Ferrari's cafes. Very convenient location…"

I smiled to myself.

* * *

Ugarte's apartment was a pigsty, and I was immediately comfortable stepping inside; it was exactly the opposite of the strict order of the Nazis. And that, I realized, that was part of why I found myself drawn to Ugarte. His small stature, soft voice and relaxed-looking eyes, so unthreatening and non-masculine… and his dark odd face, so unlike "Aryan perfection." In this apartment with Signor Ugarte I felt farther away from Hitler than I had in months.

Ugarte showed me to his coffee pot and said, "You can make the regular kind with the caffeine, I'm a night owl." As he spoke, he lit up a new cigarette. This had been the longest I'd ever seen him without one in his mouth.

"All right," I made to start on the coffee, but waited to watch what Ugarte was now doing. He was headed towards his closet, removing his suit coat (it was hot in this apartment, and he had no fan). It was one of those long coat closets, which took up an entire wall.

"Well go on," he said, and I realized he didn't want me to be looking when he got the visas.

I turned away and started on the coffee. I heard Ugarte open his closet, and do some rummaging. I did not hear anything to suggest he had a safe in there, so I assumed he had them hidden in a loose brick in the wall, or under a floorboard. When I was finished and left the coffee to brew, Ugarte was seated at a small table in the middle of the room, working on the two letters of transit. I watched him forge the signatures, and fill out the information. He signed the signatures first on a scrap piece of paper, which had already been used for this many times. When he had it down well, he carefully did it finally on the exit visa.

He glanced up at me between writing. "This may take a bit, Madame."

I stood still by the coffee pot, and looked around. It was a one room apartment, with a water closet. A small bed stood against the wall near the door, unmade. Clothes were piled around here and here, as well as newspapers. A few pictures were pinned to the wall, of locations from Italy, America, and some other places. They looked like they'd been cut from newspapers or books. After Ugarte finished the visas I offered him the money, but he stopped me with his hand.

"Just the coffee now, please."

Wondering what was going through his head, I poured us both some coffee. I did not have work for Signor Haddad the next day, as Saturday was a holy day for his people, and his bead shop was not opened then. So I had no need to be going to bed early tonight.

Over my coffee I looked to a picture of a chapel, on the wall. "Where is that chapel?"

"Hungary." Ugarte removed his cigarette from his mouth and exhaled, to make room for a sip of coffee. He told me the name of the church, but through his thick accent I couldn't tell what he'd said. "…always I attended that church as a child. My mother insisted."

"You're not Italian then?" I asked, sipping my own coffee. I realized I hadn't made it very well at all, and hoped Ugarte either didn't notice or didn't mind.

"My father was Italian, my mother Hungarian. My father wanted that we should stay far from his business in Italy until we were older, so he had us all live in my mother's home country."

"You were born into the Mafia, then?" I asked, far too casually.

"Yah." He looked up at me with a mischievous grin, and spoke now like he usually did in Rick's café—like he thought himself very impressive. "My father was Drago Ugarte, you've heard of him?"

"No," I shook my head. Not wanting to spoil it for him, I added, "I have never much been around Italy." And that was true. "Was your father well known there?" The impressed voice with which I asked the question was _not_ true.

"Very much so," he glanced down towards his coffee, running his finger along the rim thoughtfully. "He was his don's favorite. He was with him in every business deal they did. Anyone who displeased the don, my father taught to them a lesson. He was one of the most feared killers in Italy," his eyes widened with excitement here. "My brothers and I, he got for us positions in the business. He said we did good. He said I was the cleverest of the three of us." But his face then fell, and that low flat tone returned to his voice. "He never lived to see me kill anyone." He took a drag from his cigarette.

"That is…sad." I said, feeling very confused.

I took a long sip from my coffee. The flavor wasn't good, but it was at least warm. "What sort of person would you wish he could see you kill?" I asked it offhandedly, as if we were just talking about the weather.

Ugarte shrugged. "Whomever. Enemies, people who back-stabbed on deals. It's just part of the business you know." It was all I could do not to say, _I_ don't _know. _"But I'm _close_ to it, mind you. I've had my share of victories already. Tonight what you saw, with that thief, I could not shoot him right there, where everyone would hear the gunshot. But I've sent many men to the doctor, who double-crossed me. This man in Venice once—this back when I was very young, in '25—_he_ tried to pick, then, my pocket. I broke his wrist, and his jaw, and dropped him then into the canal." He gave that raspy chuckle again, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "I watched the poor devil climb out of the canal, only to be greeted by the police, and a few visiting Nazis."

The mention of the Nazis left me unsettled. But wait one moment…

"Nazis?" I frowned. "But you said this was in the 1920s. There were Nazis already, in Italy then?"

Ugarte stopped, his coffee almost to his mouth. His eyes shifted as he tried to come up with an excuse. "…perhaps I'm confusing it with another event," he finally said lamely.

"You are the last-born, aren't you."

He tapped excess ash off his cigarette. "Does it show?"

I smiled and shrugged.

Yes, it showed. A firstborn, I thought, would probably have a cold indifference to figures of authority, having grown up with no role models to impress. I was certain it contributed to my own disinterest in fulfilling others' expectations. But the way Ugarte seemed so used to worming his way under powerful figures like the Nazis, the police and Signor Ferrari, rather than just confronting them head-on; the way he so desired to be thought of as a strong killer, longing to impress people; how I'd so often seen him use his big innocent-looking eyes to try to get what he wanted from others; it all screamed "little brother" to me.

Obviously, it wouldn't be a good idea to tell him this. So I simply said, "I have a younger sister, so I can tell."

How we wound up from his table to his bed, I cannot remember in full. I think it started though when we were standing by his wall, looking at the picture of Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, talking about what we hoped to do in America. I confessed to him that I was a Jew, and he smiled at that.

"The Jews," he said, "I never knew nothing of your kind until coming to Casablanca. The only time I heard the word 'Jew' was when I was a naughty child, and my mother threatened to sell me to the Jews, when it wasn't the Gypsies of course." That made me giggle. He placed then his hand on my shoulder, near my neck, feeling my hair. "But in America you know, my kind does business with yours all the time, so I hear."

"What, the Mafia?" I asked curiously.

"Certainly. It seems you people are very well trusted with banking and such things." He looked then at me, very serious. "You know we all hate the Nazis, as badly as you do. The Mafia, we came about in the first place to protect poor devils like yourself from corrupt monsters like them." To my surprise, he was using that low flat voice, like maybe—just maybe—he was actually speaking the _truth_.

"Is that true?" I asked.

"Killing without reason, without a speck of honor, women and children, my father hated them. I hate them. It's something even the fiercest of crooks shouldn't consider. And of course, we don't appreciate uninvited guests in our home country." By this he was referring to the Nazi's occupation of Italy.

Looking away from him a moment, I said with absolute clarity and honesty, "If given the chance, I would kill a Nazi, and I would think nothing of it. If you want to kill someone Ugarte, you should make it a Nazi. If you killed a Nazi I should not lose a wink of sleep over it."

"Guillermo." He said, taking my chin, and then kissed me.

I remember when I asked my sister Rachel, after she married Vladek, what it was like. She said that the first time you do it, it is not romantic like the stories all say. She said it hurts, and it's probably going to be embarrassing. She was not lying. Only a few seconds in I pleaded for Ugarte—Guillermo—to stop. He did, and waited, while I took deep breaths. He offered me something to drink, that might calm me down and take off the pain, but I shook my head no.

"I'm in no rush," he said looking away. "If tonight is not a good night, Sofie Beckman,"

"No, now. I want it now." I said determinedly, and pulled him back close. "And it's Tova. Tova…" I almost told him my real last name as well, but stopped.

It still hurt, but I pretended it didn't. I had to know what it was like, pleasure be damned. I had to have this knowledge, to forever look back on, like Rachel had with Vladek. I also felt obligated to cheer up poor Guillermo's night. And his touch, I couldn't say no to. For all the unpleasantness I was feeling between my thighs, he made up for it with his hands, on my face and torso. His hands moved just like his voice, unnaturally smooth and soft. He was not new to this, like me.

* * *

I half woke up early that morning, while it was still dark; my eyes were opened a moment, but my mind was still asleep. I lay in the bed, in a tangle of blankets and our clothes. Guillermo was tying on a maroon robe. He stroked my cheek and hair, then moved to the closet to get something. I remember my tired mind thinking, _Oh, he's making his own coffee now,_ even though that thought made no sense at all. I drifted back to sleep.

The sunlight woke me hours later. I stretched, cracking my back, then my knuckles, every joint in my body. As I moved to stretch my legs, I noticed something over the blankets, on my lap. Papers. I picked them up, the letters of transit—all four of them.

Guillermo was dressed already in an olive-green suit, working on some more fake exit visas at the table.

I sat up, not bothering to cover my small breasts in his presence. "You do not want to be paid? You're just giving them to me?"

He looked at me as if I'd made a joke. "Funny, Tova. Very amusing." He shook his head back down to his work, laughing a little.

I only sat there. "I don't understand."

"My dear," he finished one signature on a visa, with a quick swish of his pen. "It's done. You can drop it now, the charade."

Now I pulled the blankets up, covering myself. I breathed quick, frightened, not understanding what he was accusing me of. "I don't understand," my voice was cracking, "What have I done?"

Slowly, he looked back up at me, his big black eyes so confused. They darted from me, down to the visas, back and forth. "What you, you….you followed me here last night, just because you wanted to? Because you found me _handsome_?" he laughed ironically.

I grew numb, as it all fell together. What he'd thought I was doing, that entire night, right from the moment I offered to follow him home and make him some coffee. Perhaps even earlier, when I came to him in that alley, and followed him to the Blue Parrot. What else in the world _could_ he have thought?

Shaking, I looked down to check that the four visas were all well done. I was no expert on this, but they looked all correct. I made a mental note to have them double-checked with someone. Still trembling, I rose from the bed and dressed myself. Tears streamed down my eyes. I moved quickly to the door, and walked briskly out of Guillermo Ugarte's apartment without closing it behind me, wiping my eyes.

* * *

**A/N: I solemnly swear to do all I can to prevent this from dissolving into a perfect, Mary Sue romance. Suffice to say, Tova and Ugarte's relationship will be less like something from "Twilight," and more like something from "Boardwalk Empire."**

**And if that defense isn't good enough, I'll say this: if girls can write Mary Sue romance fics about Captain Barbossa, Jareth the Goblin King, and the god-f**king-damn Joker, then I can darn well give Peter Lorre some luvin.' **


	5. The Roulette Regulars

**A/N: Kudos to the website "Casablanca: Round Up the Usual Suspects." This site goes into ridiculous detail about the actors in "Casablanca," including all of the minor characters and even people in the background with no speaking roles. I referred to this site to pull up nameless faces that I could turn into characters for this story (because if there's anything "Casablanca" needs more of, it's minor characters).**

**I do not own "Casablanca."**

**Chapter 5: The Roulette Regulars**

* * *

After our initial, shall we say, "failure to communicate," I was hurt and angry, both at Ugarte and at myself. To say that I felt stupid, as I walked home from his apartment in tears, wouldn't summarize it. You see, all my life I'd been the type who struggled in school, and in communicating with others; for the artistically inclined, such problems come with the territory. Before the War I never minded this. But now it terrified me. I wasn't just crying from heartache, but from _fear_. It was only by the grace of God that my stupidity last night had gotten good results for my family. If I could _accidentally_ seduce four exit visas out of one of the most well-known crooks in Casablanca, then my god, what else might I get myself into? Get Rachel and the children into? A concentration camp, perhaps?

When I entered our apartment, carefully closing the door behind me with a shaking hand, Yvonne looked up from the table. She was in her long white nightgown, eating her eggs and toast.

"Sofie, where were you? Sascha and I were so frightened for you, when you left and never returned! We thought the Nazis—" She then noticed the envelope in my hand, and her expression changed. "Oh."

I hiccuped a little, still crying, and went to the bedroom to put the visas away. I wrapped them up in a scrap cloth (Yvonne had piles of the stuff leftover from work, and always let me help myself to it). Then I stuck them in the back of my drawer under some clothes.

"Sofie?" Yvonne opened the bedroom door a crack, as I unbuttoned my suit jacket. "Oh Sofie, was it that horrible?"

I shook my head. "No, no. It was…not what you're thinking. I didn't…I don't wish to talk about it."

She looked me up and down, and then turned away. As she did I blurted out, "I thought I was in love with him, you see. But _he_ thought I wanted only the visas." I wiped my eyes again, climbing into bed. "But these are what's important, so it shouldn't matter."

Yvonne cocked her head at me, through the door. "You love Captain Renault?"

"Captain Renal—? No_, no, no_. Not Renault. It was…somebody else. I need to sleep."

Yvonne was confused, but she didn't pry. She was relieved that I was safe and had my visas. Beyond that, she seemed wrapped in worries of her own.

* * *

For the next week I avoided Rick's Café. I spent my free time taking relaxing walks through Casablanca, and asking around if anyone wanted to buy sketches. (I had my visas, but there was still rent and food to pay for.) When I was sure I could face Ugarte again without breaking into tears, I agreed to return to the café with Yvonne and the other girls, Brigitte and Rita. I was introduced to Rita's husband Marco. As the group of us stood there in conversation, I glimpsed Ugarte, getting a drink from the bar. I caught him watching me, sipping calmly. I suggested to my friends that we sit outside, and they liked the idea. The group of us sat there under the late afternoon sun—Yvonne, Brigitte, Rita, Marco, and myself.

Just after Yvonne and Brigitte left to get some drinks from Sascha, the band from inside started up a beautiful Spanish tune. I'd heard before, on the radio probably. It had a slow, mournful melody that was oddly soothing. Rita and Marco got up to dance on the pavement. I watched them, resting my cheek in my hand, deep in thought. There wasn't much space for dancing, but with what they had to work with, I thought the Spanish couple did beautifully.

"It's a beautiful tune, no?"

Even if his voice hadn't been so recognizable, I'd have known him from his shadow. The way he stood there, slowly fiddling his cigarette in one hand. He took the empty seat next to mine. He gave his cigarette a shake over the ground, looking down at it with that innocent smile, then rolled his eyes up to me.

"You know Miss Beckman, I have been looking for you everywhere."

My face still in my hand, not turning to look at him, I said, "What a coincidence Signor Ugarte. I have been avoiding you everywhere."

"'Signor Ugarte?' So we're back to formality now! I deserve that I suppose. But Miss Tov—"

I looked sharply at him.

"_Sofie._ You know such a thing is commonplace, here in Casablanca. It's how most women gain their exit visas from Captain Renault, in case you didn't know. I…didn't think a sweet girl like you would offer such a thing so readily unless you were desperate for something. I didn't mean to imply anything about your character," he gestured to me with his cigarette, shaking his head. "An act like that, it doesn't make one any less of a lady, not in Casablanca."

I realized the truth in what he was saying, and it made me feel a little better.

"I'll forgive you then, I suppose." I took a sip from my glass of water. "I owe you an apology as well. I should have thought more on what I was doing, that night. I was… excited."

He furrowed his brow at me. "That's no surprise, seeing how long you seem to have been waiting." He placed the cigarette back in his mouth, blinking at me with mock concern.

My law dropped slightly. But then I smiled, seeing the humor.

I decided to change the subject. "Do you know the name of this song?"

Ugarte blew out a cloud of smoke. "_Perfidia_. It means 'false.'" Toying with his cigarette he asked, "Could I presume to ask for a dance?"

I warned him that I wasn't very good, but he didn't care. We did not dance as well as Rita and Marco, but it's not as if we were performing for anyone. The Spanish couple took notice of us, and seemed amused. As we moved to the song, Ugarte and I conversed, and I think we both began to feel less awkward.

"Three years," he said, when I asked him how long he'd been in Casablanca. "By now I know everyone worth knowing. Have you made many friends yet?"

"Some, yes," I said. "Yvonne, Brigitte and Rita. Sascha, of course. Signor Haddad is friendly…though it's difficult as he doesn't know much English,"

Even as I spoke, Ugarte was leading me out of our dance, back towards the café door. "Why don't you come with me to the roulette wheel, I'll introduce you to everyone. Many of them are refugees like yourself."

I suspected he was more interested in showing off a new lady friend to his criminal cronies. But I felt so safe with his arm around mine, I was eager to make new friends, and excited to meet more criminals. So I said, "That would be very kind of you, Signor."

"Please, I'm only Ugarte, at least in here. It's what everyone calls me."

We walked past the bar, where Yvonne was leaning over the counter, laughing against Sasha's chest. Next to her, Brigitte was touching up her makeup in a tiny purse mirror. Sascha pointed towards Ugarte and me, and my two friends turned to look at us. Brigitte smiled brightly, as if seeing me with Ugarte was the sweetest thing she'd seen all week. Sascha looked like he wasn't sure what to think. Yvonne stared at me as if I had lobsters coming out of my ears.

* * *

I could guess which gamblers were the illegal visa brokers like Ugarte, and which were their refugee customers like me, based on how talkative they were. Most of the men and women I met were people I'd seen regularly at the roulette wheel.

"You found a new girl, Ugarte?" a blonde man with an American accent drawled, as we sat down at the gambling table. "Took you long enough."

Ugarte blew out some smoke and answered coolly, "Can I help it if the Nazis keep chasing away every beautiful girl I find?"

"I think your hootch breath chases them away."

Ignoring him, Ugarte introduced us. "George Holden, this is Miss Sofie Beckman."

"Pleased ta meetcha' Miss Beckman," George looked at me with a raised eyebrow. "You look like a lady with a story."

"He'll give you a free photograph," a Spanish woman smoking a long cigarette said, "Provided he can keep a copy for his stories."

"You're a journalist?" I asked George Holden, just before the Frenchman running the roulette wheel hollered the new round right next to my ear.

After placing his bet, the George Holden turned back to me. "I'm sorry were you saying? Oh yeah, I'm a journalist." He lowered his voice, and looked at me, his blue eyes serious. "I've been documenting the Nazi's crimes since I came to Europe in '38. Suffice ta say, I'm on their bad side."

My eyes wide, I said quietly, "Surely then, George Holden is not your real name."

George shrugged, reaching for his chips. "Sure it is, they all know who I am." He nodded away from the table, presumably towards the police. "But they can't touch me here. Casablanca's outside the Nazi's jurisdiction. Anyway, your boyfriend's got me a visa fixed in case I ever need to get out of here fast."

Ugarte offered me a cigarette. I reached for it gingerly, unsure of whether I really felt like a smoke at the moment.

"It seems you're left with me then, love!" a Spanish man with a pencil-thin mustache suddenly said to his companion—the woman with the long cigarette. "Unless Miss Beckman is willing to share with you."

George Holden glanced at the couple with a raised eyebrow. The woman was giggling through her hand. I looked at Ugarte, and saw him glaring murderously under his eyebrows at the Spanish man, his cigarette frozen next to his mouth.

"Don't get jealous," an Oriental woman next to me said quietly. "Carmen is as likely to try to steal _you_ from _Ugarte_ as the other way around."

I quickly took the cigarette Ugarte was offering and inhaled, blinking through my shock. Several at the table were laughing, Carmen and her companion the hardest. Some others, people not in this group of friends, glanced over disapprovingly, and returned to their game, trying to ignore us. I finally forced some laughter out of myself, and glanced at Ugarte. Ugarte sat back, trying to look like he was focused on his cigarette, then waved down a waiter.

When the laughter died down, the Spanish woman introduced herself. "My name is Carmen Velazquez. This is my husband Pepe." Pepe was now focused on the game, and seemed to have no qualm with his wife introducing him, instead of vise versa. "If you're unsatisfied with anything Ugarte has done for you, you can come to Pepe and me." I stared at her, until she added quietly, "We, too, are in the business of papers."

I let out a breath, and smiled, as they laughed some more at me.

Once I was past the discomfort, I found myself amused by the Velazquez couple. They seemed so elegant, both tall people in their thirties, Carmen with her dark hair bound back in a net and crowned in a little flowered cap, and Pepe in a blinding white suit with his hair slicked back. I'd never have guessed, from all those times I'd watched them from afar, that they were a criminal team, or that they were laughing about such "degenerate" behaviors.

"I'll buy from whoever shows me the best papers." The Oriental woman said flatly, laying down her chips. "Once I have the money of course."

Her voice had just a trace of an Asian accent, but she spoke her English impeccably. She wore a modest short-sleeved top and skirt, and her hair was rolled up much like mine. At first, I thought she was trying blend in with the white women who surrounded her. But then I noticed the red and gold Oriental designs on her top, and realized that her attire might be completely normal for her home country. The geishas I pictured when thinking of Japan might represent the real thing as much as a medieval princess represented England.

"Who are _you_ running from?" I asked her casually, turning my cigarette in my hand.

She looked me up and down, as if considering how to word it. "In Japan…" she sipped her drink. "…it is not good to come from a Chinese mother, or a communist father." Smiling, she changed the subject. "I'm Saddako, Saddako Saito. Sofie, was it?"

I'd never spoken to a "person of color" outside my job with Signor Haddad, not even Sam the piano player at this point. I did not want to appear rude, but was so curious to know about life in Japan, a place so far away that I'd only seen through stamps and picture books. As casually as I could, I worked questions about Japan into the conversation. Saddako stayed cheery and sociable, but from what she told me, it was clear that Asia was gripped by the same darkness as Europe. Meeting Saddako changed how I thought of Japan. Before, I'd thought of the Japanese as one mass of power-hungry, death-dealing imperials, glad to ally with Hitler. I felt ashamed, not to have considered that it would be filled with frightened men, women and children who were "vermin" in the eyes of their new government, just like in Germany.

I laughed, smoked and drank, blending in as best I could. When I wasn't talking to anyone, I watched, watched how my new friends treated the game at hand. George Holden bet very little amounts of money each time, and didn't seem terribly interested in the game. He was far more interested in socializing, making conversation with as many different people as possible, even people he didn't seem to know. Pepe and Carmen played together as a team, fixed intently on the game, but not in a serious way. They gave up their money to the wheel in random amounts, sometimes large sometimes small, with no apparent rhyme or reason. They'd take turns placing bets, and give each other advice or joking insults while doing so. Saddako made no effort to hide her distain for the Spanish couple's carelessness. She herself had a far more disciplined method of gambling. She would bet the same, very small amount each time, and whatever money she won, she would quickly zip into a little purse (covered in Japanese designs), which she'd then button into her pocket.

I took notice of one last gambler, a much older woman with black hair pulled into a tight bun. Her eyes were unusually shaped, extremely sad looking, even more so than Ugarte's. She spoke no English (but apparently understood the French that the game's host was speaking). She was silent most of the time, and watched the younger players as if supervising her children. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but from her facial features and the way she carried herself, I had a strong, strong feeling that we had something in common. When Pepe won a sum of money for himself and Carmen, I cheered, "_Mazeltov!_" in a voice just loud enough for the old woman to hear. The old woman looked up sharply at me with wide eyes, and from that I was certain that she, too, was a Jew.

Rick stopped by, on his way to the piano, where Sam was setting up for the evening. "How's everyone doing tonight?" the American asked, casting a rehearsed smile around the table.

We all chimed in our responses. Ugarte stood from his chair, still holding his drink and cigarette, and greeted Rick as if they were best friends. "I think I'm winning Rick! And how are you?"

"Busy Ugarte, very busy." As he said Ugarte's name, pronouncing it "Ugatee," Rick held his smile, but the rest of his face and voice melted into a clear disdain. I wondered if he was mispronouncing Ugarte's name on purpose, as a form of passive-aggression.

Ugarte talked on in that mocking courtesy, looking up at Rick like he was a beloved big brother. "Oh Rick, have you met my friend, Sofia Beckman?" he gestured to me, and I smiled politely.

Rick nodded my way. "I'm very please to meet you Miss Beckman. Are you enjoying yourself?"

Apparently, he didn't remember that he and I had already been introduced. He probably met new faces every single day, and it's not as if mine stood out from a crowd like Ugarte's.

"Oh yes," I nodded, "Very much so."

Rick looked like he was holding something back. "Well I've got other customers to get to." he looked Ugarte's way. "That's a nice girl Ugarte. I uh, hope you appreciate her."

Rick left before Ugarte could come up with a response. I smoked my cigarette, thinking on what Rick had said, and what Pepe had said earlier to his wife. I watched Ugarte as he returned to the game, betting as carelessly as Carmen and Pepe. Watched him light up a new cigarette from the old one that wasn't even finished yet, order a second drink before even taking a sip of the one he had just been served. I hazarded a guess at what all of these people tonight had been trying to tell me: _Sofia Beckman, if you wish to be with Signor Ugarte, just you keep that man on a leash! _

A loud, ugly laughter made me jump.

Some of the Nazis at a table on the opposite wall were drunk, laughing and joking loudly in German. I heard the word "Juden" several times, and grew cold. Rick and Sam were staring at them. I leaned over the back of my chair, eager to hear Rick tell the Nazis to shut up or shove off. But Rick apparently decided it wasn't worth the risk, and gave Sam a nod. The piano player started up a calming song, as if the Nazis weren't there. Patrons returned to their drinks or cigarettes, and picked up their conversations—more loudly this time.

Ugarte was fixed on the game, as if he hadn't heard a thing. He glanced up only when he noticed that I was turned away from the table. Confused, he followed my gaze, and saw the laughing Nazis. Gently he put his hand on my back (careful not to hit me with the cigarette or spill the drink it also held), and turned me back to the game.

"Have something to drink." he said quietly, and passed me his second, untouched glass. "Would you like to learn how roulette works?"

I allowed him to keep me distracted from the Nazis for the rest of the evening, listening to him walk me through the game.

Ugarte kept me distracted from all of my troubles for the next several months, often by giving me new ones. Ours was a turbulent on-and-off-again relationship, wrought with fights and make-ups. It was my relationship with Guillermo Ugarte, along with my friendship with Yvonne, which led me to most of the others I met in Casablanca. But of course, you've heard already what ultimately happened to my poor Ugarte. That, however, I'll save for a later time.

* * *

**A/N: As mentioned above, most of these "original characters" are based on background characters in the movie. In addition to that "Usual Suspects" website, I also had a lot of fun with You Tube clips and screencaps on Google, looking for interesting faces I could turn into characters.**

**If you want to know who's who in this chapter, here's a rundown: **

**Saddako Saito is the Asian woman, seen near the start of the movie; Rita (Yvonne's Spanish friend) is the curly-haired gambler sitting across from Ugarte, when the cops come for him; the old Jewish woman is in that same scene, sitting next to her; George Holden is the blond man with the American accent who says, "When they come for me Rick, I hope you'll be more of a help!" (To which Rick replies, "I stick my neck out for nobody."); Carmen is the woman who freaks out when the cops drag Ugarte past her, and Pepe is the man she runs next to immediately afterwards (both are seen standing behind Rick for a few seconds, looking upset); and Tova will be the woman sitting next to Ugarte, who looks over with concern when he walks away from the table with the police. **


	6. Opals and Absinth at the Blue Parrot

**I do not own "Casablanca." **

**Chapter 6: Opals and Absinth at the Blue Parrot**

* * *

I witnessed my first dramatic arrest at Rick's just a few weeks into my relationship with Signor Ugarte.

No, it was not _his_ arrest. That was months away yet. This victim was a woman.

I'd often seen Captain Renault and his policemen approach a person in the saloon, usually a man, but sometimes a couple or a group of people. They would walk out of the bar, the ones in custody showing anything from disappointed to grim terror. I would try hard not to think about where those people had come from, or where they were now going.

It was mid-afternoon and I was sitting at the bar next to Ugarte, when the short shriek echoed throughout the café. It was a dark woman, possibly a Gypsy, or some other "lower race" Hitler had sworn to annihilate. One of Renault's policemen was pulling her along by the arm, while she rambled something in French, tears and mucus running down her face. As they passed a couple eating, she suddenly grabbed a fork off their table and stabbed the policeman in the face with it, then ran from the café. She tripped over her long skirt on the way out, and fell flat to the ground. She was pulled to her feet by Captain Renault and another policeman, who then dragged her outside. The entire café watched her leave, some whispering in confusing, others watching in silence.

Rick Blaine stood by the opened doorway with his hand over his face. He straightened himself, and addressed his guests somberly. "Apologies for the disturbance folks. Try not ta let it spoil your evening. Just relax and have a good time." He gave Sam a pat on the shoulder, and said something to him. Sam started up a popular favorite, "Knock on Wood," and by the second verse everyone was singing along. Rick walked on through the cafe, making short conversations and patting people on the back or shoulder.

I sat there at the bar, staring at the small drink in my hand. I looked over at Ugarte. He was staring at the doorway where the arrested woman had gone out, with an impassive expression. He finally raised his glass to his lips and, with that fast blink of his, seemed to purge the scene from his mind. He smiled up at Rick when the saloon keeper came by.

"The, the way you calmed this crowd so smoothly Rick, one would think you and Renault just rehearsed it all!" he laughed, almost nervously.

"What do you want me to do, learn to stutter?" Rick said dryly.

"Rick sometimes I think you treat me too harshly. _I_ at least help these poor bast—" Rick gave Ugarte a warning look. "—_devils_ to find ways out of this city."

Rick grinned at Ugarte. "You'd have no place help those 'poor devils' if I wasn't providing the café, Ugarte. Don't bite the hand that feeds you." He rested an arm on the bar, actually speaking to Ugarte in a sincerely friendly way. "So how're your relocation plans coming along?"

"I think I'm close to having enough saved for an apartment, but I want to be sure I have enough to pay the rent for a while."

"New York apartments are expensive, Ugarte. Take your time."

"You, you think I'd fit in, in America?"

Rick stared at his friend, his toothy smile frozen on his face. Finally he said, "I don't think you'll stand out in New York."

Rick and Ugarte joked and conversed for a while, while I downed my drink, trying to forget what we'd all witnessed just minutes ago. I tried to focus on the sound of Rick and Ugaret's voices. I tried to distract myself, by focusing on Rick's interesting American accent, or the soothing voice of Ugarte, but listening to those two chatter as if nothing wrong had happened only made it worse. I shook where I sat, as my throat swelled and my eyes began to water. I lifted a napkin to my running nose. At a nearby table, Carmen and Pepe took notice of me.

"Ugarte," Carmen called over, in a worried tone.

Without turning around Ugarte lifted a hand, asking that she wait. He continued talking to Rick.

"…But you see Rick, your customers _come_ here to exchange visas with parasites like me!" Ugarte gestured to himself with his drink. "So our relationship is eh, what is the word,"

"Symbiotic?" Professor Karl, the stout waiter, suggested, walking by with a tray.

Pepe said more loudly, "_Ugarte! _Your lady friend!"

Ugarte spun around to face Pepe, then me. Rick looked at me, his face showing just the smallest trace of sympathy.

"Are you all right Miss?" Rick stood away from the counter. "Can I get you a glass of water or something?"

"I'll take her outside Rick," Ugarte smiled and nodded to him, then took my by the arm and lead me out of the building.

"You don't care," I whispered, wiping a tear away. "People are being taken away all left and right, and none of you son-of-a-bitches—"

"_Shhh_!" Ugarte hissed, then shushed me again more gently. He added a peck on the cheek, but all this only made me more upset.

"You b-bastard!" I hissed in his ear, the tears still coming. "You, you rat!"

He sat me down at one of the outside tables. By now I was crying out loud. Of course, the heat of the Moroccan sun wasn't helping. Ugarte finally gave up trying to calm me, and plopped into a seat next to me. "One moment love," he said, rummaging through his pinstriped suit jacket. "I have I think, something to help calm you…"

Carmen and Pepe caught up to us, and stood over our table.

"Ah, Ugarte," Pepe said, "Why don't we bring Miss Sofie to the Blue Parrot for that, if you're doing what I think you're doing. I doubt Signor Rick would appreciate it if, if…."

Ignoring him, Ugarte fished a pack of cigarettes from his suit. They looked homemade. He stuck one in my mouth, and took his own cigarette out of his mouth to light mine with it. This was no ordinary cigarette he'd given me. The smoke was earthy, and oddly calming. I'd had this before, back when I'd socialized with the artists of Paris. _Reefers._ I inhaled deeply, and leaned back in my chair.

"There, now." Ugarte leaned back in his own chair, and said softly in my ear, "You still think I'm such a rat?"

I looked at him. In fact, his face _did_ have a rather rodent-like quality.

"A cute rat," I mumbled.

I took another long drag of the marijuana, rolling my head back in my chair, closing my eyes. I opened them slowly a moment later, and found Rick standing there, staring down at me. His eyes shifted to Ugarte. Without moving, he said, "Ugarte, you have exactly one minute to get out of my café."

Ugarte sat up, looking affronted. "Me? But _she_ is the one who—"

"Now!" the American barked.

Ugarte quickly picked his brown hat off the table and stood up. I followed him out of the café, along with Carmen and Pepe. Carmen giggled behind her hand at Ugarte, and waved goodbye to Rick. Rick just stood there with his hand in his pocket, watching us with a hard stare.

"The Blue Parrot it is, then." Ugarte said, as we made our way down the street. "Sofie, you say you have been among uh…decadents…before?"

"The worst of the worst!" I said, which was a gross exaggeration.

In truth, the worst people I'd socialized with before coming to Casablanca were opium addicted artists and their prostitute models.

"She is lying." Carmen said flatly, glancing at me over her long cigarette.

"So what." Pepe replied. "With what Ugarte will give to her at the Parrot, she probably won't remember anything she sees tonight anyway."

I made a mental note to try as hard as I could to remember everything, even take down some notes or sketches if I had to.

* * *

Signor Ferrari tolerated far more in his café than Rick did. Couples sat or lay in each other's laps, while smoking all manner of drugs. Two Moroccan girls, much younger than me, danced in costumes that left little to the imagination. I heard curse words in Italian, English, Arab, and a few other languages. My vocabulary grew significantly that night. I got a better look around the café, here in the late afternoon, than I had that night Ugarte had taken me to speak with Signor Ferrari after he'd been pick-pocketed. A long shelf of drinks lined the back wall behind the counter. Walls of crooked logs separated different parts of the café. Here and there were large plants and exotic decorations. It had an otherworldly feel to it (though I'll admit that the chemicals in the air may have helped with that). I fancied myself walking through the jungles of India, thinking on the Kipling stories I'd read as a child.

The four of us sat around a round table of gamblers, playing a card game. I sat in Ugarte's lap, smoking my reefers, while he gambled with Carmen, Pepe, and two other men they were friends with. All visa-brokers.

"In cash," said one of their friends—a frazzle-haired man in a wrinkled suit, who reminded me of one of the Three Stooges. "I always remind my customers, 'In cash.' Make sure every transaction you make is crystal clear to the customer."

"Talking about cash Bernardo," Pepe said, "why don't you place your bet on the table already."

"All right, all right." Bernardo reached into his wrinkled suit pocket and pulled out a ring. It was a smooth gold ring, set with a black oval-shaped stone. "Some little rat on the streets traded me this, just this morning, in exchange for some money and food. Little tykes don't know how to barter."

"Where did a child get a ring like that?" I said, sitting up in Ugarte's lap.

"That could belong to his mother!" Carmen added, gesturing to the ring with her cigarette.

Bernardo shook his head. "He told me that he pulled it off the hand of some French officer's wife."

"Well," Ugarte said, "In that case, let's have it!"

Ugarte won that round of the game, and he won the ring. He picked up my hand, and slid it onto my middle finger. "That's an opal. Good luck, so I'm told."

"You made that up." I said, admiring the stone on my finger.

"No, he's right," Pepe said, looking at the ring. "That _is_ an opal."

We chain-smoked and chain-drank for hours, conversing and laughing and gambling. We had a puff from an opium pipe that some Arab was passing around the café. Signor Ferrari meanwhile supervised the going-ons in his café from a dark corner, occasionally taking business with a crook here and there. The fat man sat enthroned in an armchair, puffing a hookah. He reminded me of a sultan. It might have been my imagination, but he seemed to watch Ugarte giving me drinks and cigarettes with the admiration of a father watching his son's wedding.

As the café darkened with the sunset, and my eyesight became hazed from all I was putting into my body, the Blue Parrot came to feel more and more like a jungle. I was silent for what felt like a long time, just watching the different people weaving their ways around the potted plants and exotic decorations. I wondered what my sister, niece and nephew were doing now. Maybe Rachel was reading the children a story, in the cellar where they were hiding. Something relaxing and magical, probably, like _Alice in Wonderland._

Just after sunset, Ugarte began to mix himself a very peculiar drink. He placed a large slotted spoon over a small cup, containing a bright green spirit, and on top of that spoon, a sugar cube. Then he poured some of the alcohol from his glass onto that sugar cube, melting it into the drink. I watched, my tired mind mesmerized, as the sugar clouded up the drink, like a magical little storm.

"What's that there, now?" I asked quietly.

Ugarte blinked up at me, as if he'd forgotten I was there. "Oh. Eh…nothing. Uh, here I'll let you try a sip. Just a small sip. This is strong."

He let me take the tiniest of sips. I tell you, it was _vile_! It left a bitter taste in my mouth. At first. But a second later, I realized it was the most wonderful thing I ever had tasted. It had an earthy, herbal aftertaste that left me wanting for more.

"You like it?" Ugarte smiled at me.

A man in a suit suddenly tapped Ugarte's shoulder, and muttered something to him in Italian. Ugarte excused himself, and left to go talk business with Ferrari. Foolishly, he left his strange drink on the table in front of me.

I didn't even think the decision over. I just looked to make sure Ugarte wasn't watching, and then picked up his drink. I lifted it to my lips, intending to take just another little sip. But once it hit my tongue, I couldn't remove it, it was so delightful. I took the whole thing down in one gulp. Then I leaned back, melting into the chair, cradling the empty cup. My brain felt so warm inside my skull, so very warm. My problems were _gone_. I forgot the Nazis even existed. I thought of my sister Rachel, of Anchel and Sarah, how safe and cozy they were with their Christian friends, in that little cellar. Rachel reading them _Alice in Wonderland…. _

"…_Oh, we're all mad here!" I heard Rachel say in the purring voice she always used, when reading the Cheshire Cat's lines. "I'm mad! You're mad!" _

_Cozy little cellar. Looked like the bedroom Rachel and I had shared as children, in fact… _

"Is she asleep?"

My eyes peeked opened a bit, and I saw Carmen and Pepe staring at me. Pepe lay across two chairs, with his head in Carmen's lap. Carmen turned away from me, as she rummaged for something in her purse. I became fascinated by the large white carnation in her hair. Its petals rippled, as if blowing in the wind. Then they slowly began to spin, like the spokes of a pinwheel. It was so soothing to watch.

When she turned back around I slurred, "No, no, look that way again Carmen. I want to watch your flower spin. It's so much prettier, than when it's still."

Carmen burst into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. Then she said something I didn't hear, and pointed off to something behind me. I stared curiously at her hand, in that pose, noticing how her fingers curved around each other. I thought hard about how I'd draw that.

"The _beads_!" Carmen repeated, loudly.

She leaned over and took my head gently in her hands, and turned it so I was looking at the curtain of beads on the door of the café. "Look at the _beads_, Sofie! They're dancing!"

And she was right! I watched the colors and shapes of the beads, raining down in a water fall. They moved like the patterns in a kaleidoscope. Ferrari's parrot squawked and chirped from its perch near the doorway (the bird was kept inside tonight). Whenever the parrot made a noise, the beads suddenly moved into a new pattern. I laughed, feeling the joy ripple through my body. I felt like I was five-years-old, and anything could amuse me. I looked closer and closer at the beads, trying to see how they managed to move around so quickly, and yet so smoothly.

"_Madame!_"

Signor Ferrari was suddenly towering over me. He was gigantic, a massive white-suited mountain, topped with that little red fez, so high up I could barely see it. Had he grown even bigger since I'd last seen him? Or had I somehow shrunk_? Good god, the drugs! _Was this a side effect? Did they shrink your body? What had I done, taking all of those drugs in one night!

"I _said_, you are _blocking_ the entrance to my café. It is late yes, but I still have customers coming and going. And besides, I don't think you want such a pretty dress on this dirty floor, do you now?"

Indeed, I was laying on the floor, the dancing beads tickling my face. Ferrari took my arm and hauled me to my feet.

"Can you stand, miss?"

"Of course I can stand it!" I surprised myself by sounding angry. "I'm an artist you know! I've befriended scoundrels in Parrí! And we smoked _all sorts_ of hoozits and whatzits!"

Ferrari eyed me carefully, as I walked slowly away from him. I returned to my seat on at the card table. Ferrari began to turn away. The red coloring of his fez was intense, a much brighter red than I had ever noticed before.

And then it flew right at me.

One moment, the fez was on Ferrari's head; the next, it was shooting forward at me, right into my face, until I could see nothing but the color red. Next thing I knew I was leaning back against my chair, either laughing or screaming or both.

Ferrari stomped towards me and took hold of my shoulders. He stared intently into my eyes with that intense, serious stare of his, which made me laugh even harder. He pulled me up from the chair and took me across the room, to where Ugarte stood, laughing with friends.

"_Ugarte, you degenerate pimp_!" the fat man bellowed.

Ugarte spun on his heel to face Ferrari, his eyes bulging with honest confusion.

"What have you done to this girl?" Ferrari demanded, and thrust me forward into Ugarte.

Ugarte caught me as I slammed into his chest, stuck in a silent fit of giggles. He took my head and tilted it, to look into my eyes. He looked upset.

"You think _I_ did this to her?" Ugarte pouted.

"Don't be a goose Signor Ferrari," Pepe called from the card table, sitting up from his wife's lap. "Ugarte would never share his absinth with anyone. Sofie probably had to steal it!"

"Get her out of here, Ugarte." Ferrari made a swooping motion with his arm. "Before she dies of an overdose. A dead girl in my café will not be good for business for either of us."

Ugarte practically had to drag me out the door, not because I was stubborn, but because I didn't know up from down. I clung tightly to his arm, as he hauled me outside. The silver pinstripes on suit were streaming down in a waterfall, just like the beads. As we passed a French policeman, I gripped Ugarte's arm more tightly, and leaned against him.

"Would I really have died from overdose?" I whispered.

Ugarte flicked his dead cigarette onto the street. "No." When we were out of earshot from the policeman, he added crossly, "But you _embarrassed _me tonight. You should have taken small sips like I advised you. I think perhaps you are too delicate for this level of decadence."

"You drag me to this godforsaken pub to show me off to your crooked friends, and then complain when I do what _their _girls do?" the words just tumbled out of my mouth, with no particular emotion fixed to them.

"_Their_ ladies can handle this, and are wise enough to do as they're told. I've enough embarrassments on my own without you adding to them," he snapped, and stuck a new cigarette in his mouth.

"Who do you think you are, to talk to me like I'm a child?" I hissed at him. "If it weren't for me you'd be absent one hand by now! If someone should do the thinking for the two of us, it…it shouldn't be you!"

That raspy chuckle. "'For the two of us'?"

His mouth snapped shut as we passed Rick's café. Captain Renault was sitting at a small table, discussing some serious business with a woman young enough to be his daughter. Renault looked up at Ugarte, with one eyebrow arched high.

Ugarte nodded to them. "Good evening Louie."

"Evening Ugarte," Renault said, not moving.

For one tense moment, I wondered—as did Captain Renault, no doubt—whether Ugarte would offer to sell the young woman a visa for a lower price than Renault had offered her. But Ugarte said nothing, and we moved on. I saw Renault give Ugarte a long, satisfied look as we left, and turned back to his lady friend. As far as I could tell, Ugarte and Renault weren't close, but he and the French captain had something of a loose friendship. In any case, they were friendly enough not to get involved with each others' business engagements.

By the time Ugarte was walking me up the stairs to my apartment, he was in the middle of another one of his stories. He told these stories all the time, especially when he wanted to stop an uncomfortable silence. They were stories about his misadventures working with the Italian Mafia, stories about exotic places he'd seen and gritty fights he'd won. Stories that any moron could see were complete hogwash. I'd usually let him talk on, because it amused me to see what he would come up with. And half the time, I wasn't even listening to his words; I just enjoyed his silken voice, with those hoarse little chuckles here and there.

Ugarte's story was cut short once we reached the apartment. Rick and Yvonne were standing in the opened doorway, hissing at each other.

"…It's as if you're flirting with her on purpose, to drive me away from you Rick!"

"I'm not flirting with anyone, that's your imagination." Rick spoke in a bored drawling voice, like he wasn't even _trying_ to convince her.

"You were playing with that China doll's hair in front of everyone! You called her 'gorgeous,' do you think I'm stupid Rick?" Yvonne was blinking furiously.

"Excuse us," Ugarte said without looking at Yvonne (he knew how the Frenchwoman disliked him). "Hello Rick."

Rick looked at Ugarte and started a courteous nod, but stopped when he saw me with him, then just shook his head.

Ugarte walked me through the kitchen and into the bedroom (the only two rooms in the apartment), without turning any of the lights on.

"Where was I…ah! I was the only one left standing," he said, his ridiculous story coming to a climax. "It was so dark I could scarcely see a thing."

His story had been taking place in the mid-afternoon up until this sentence. I groaned with impatience, my head hurting from the drinks and drugs.

"The beach, Guillermo." I slurred.

"What?"

I slithered out of his arms and flopped down onto my bed. "Tell me about the beach."

Outside the apartment, Rick and Yvonne were raising their voices. When Yvonne began to swear, Ugarte closed the bedroom door.

He took a seat next to me, and handed me his cigarette to puff. "I've told you, a thousand times and again, about that facking beach." The way he pronounced his curse words always made me smile.

"I've forgot." I said, taking a smoke. "Tell me again."

He delved into memories of the Italian beach his father had lived on. How he and his three older brothers would go there every summer, to stay with him. Ugarte talked about the beach in an entirely different tone than when he was telling one of his adventure stories. His voice was low and quiet, emotion creeping in just here and there.

"I was so happy to be free of Mama and her temper. But then I missed her so, especially when Papa was angry."

He'd told me already many times, about his mother's severe changes in mood. He never outright said it, but it was clear to me that his mother had been ill—_in the head_ ill. His father, meanwhile, had run his house consistently, but brutally, beating Guillermo and his brothers even for things that were honest mistakes. It was clear to me, by now, how he'd become so accustomed to flattering others, trying desperately to keep up with their changing moods.

He spoke of both his parents in past-tense. His father, he'd told me, had been killed in a fight with other criminals. What had happened to his mother, however, he never said, and I'd never yet brought myself to ask.

"…Mama would walk us out of the car to meet up with Papa. They'd look at each other, but they'd never say a word, most times." He took the cigarette from me, and had a puff. "And then she would leave."

We were lying together on top of the bed now.

"He wasn't married to her, was he," I said, staring at the ceiling.

"No." He rolled over, closer to me. "But he was no adulator. He took care of all his women and his children. That's just how it's done, you know—"

I groaned again, and rolled away from him. It irritated me, how he would talk as if his twisted culture of organized crime was just the natural order of the world.

"It's what's done in your lovely Mafia, perhaps. But if you ever finish with 'the business' like you talk about Guillermo, that won't be 'how it's done' in the rest of the world. I doubt that's how it's done in America."

After a silence he kissed me on the lips. Then he asked, "Will you come to America with me Tova?"

I was silent, as my chest grew warm with the idea. Finally I said, "I go to America as soon as my sister and her children arrive here."

"Well then, we both go to America on our own accord. Then we meet up in New York, and I get us a fine apartment. I finish with all of _this_," he waved his hand, sending a stream of cigarette smoke swirling above us, "and I get an honest job." He handed me the cigarette, which was almost finished.

"Doing what." I finished up the cigarette, and tossed it into a trash bin.

"Eh. Some dull paperwork job or another. I can fill out false visas, I'm sure I could work with real ones." He put an arm around me, pulling me close. I rested my head on his chest. "Before any of this of course, I still need to kill someone."

Outside we heard Yvonne's muffled shriek, "_You son of a bitch!_" with Rick arguing over her ("If I'm such a sorry sonofabitch then what'cha stick around for?!"). Against my better judgment, I chose to ignore them.

"A Nazi." I said softly, fiddling with Ugarte bowtie

"A Nazi, yes." He was stroking my hair now. "I'll kill you a Nazi. I'll kill you two Nazis. _Five_ Nazis."

"Don't get carried away." I said leaning back, allowing him to roll on top of me.

"Fine, two Nazis."

I kissed him once more, on the lips. "Three Nazis."

"Three Nazis," he said, already beginning to unbutton my blouse. "All right."

This was the first time it didn't hurt at all. Such a shame I didn't get to enjoy it for long.

The door banged opened and Yvonne came bursting into the room, sobbing. Ugarte and I froze exactly where we were. She collapsed onto her bed, sobbing into her hands. Ugrate pulled one of my sheets over us for privacy, and quickly finished his business. Once done, he stole a glance at Yvonne, whose face was still in her arms. Slowly and cautiously, he stepped out of the bed and began to pick up his clothes. He wasn't quiet _enough_, it seems. Yvonne pushed herself up and threw her head over her shoulder, glaring at Ugarte. Ugarte held his clothes in a bunch, covering himself.

He tried that bashful, innocent smile. "I'll just be leaving then,"

Without a word, Yvonne grabbed her hairbrush off her nightstand and chucked it at him.

"Right!" Ugarte hurried out of the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him. "Not one minute and I'll be on my way…"

I figured I should say something to Yvonne, to get Ugarte a moment or two to throw some clothes on before leaving. "I could…I'll make breakfast tomorrow," I said to Yvonne, "for both of us,"

Yvonne just sat there, wiping her eyes.

"I uh, know how to make pancakes."

Yvonne grumbled something in French. I knew a bit of French from my time in Paris, but not enough to understand all that she said. But I knew she'd said something related to men, and me being naive.

"I'm not naïve Yvonne, I know exactly what scum men can be." I pulled on my nightdress and went ot het door. I opened it a crack, to see Ugarte fully dressed from the waist down, hastily buttoning up his shirt.

"Ja," Yvonne sniffled. "You know, you just don't care."

Determined to change the subject, I continued looking through the door at Ugarte. "Good god, how could someone so tiny have so much hair!"

"_Rick's_ chest has more." Yvonne insisted, as if I'd just attacked her pride. "He still wants me, of course he does. He's only pretending he doesn't, just to make me angry. _Well it's working_!" She pounded her fist against the bed.

"Yvonne," I said flatly.

"Yes Sofie?" She sniffled again.

I was going to say something about how immature I thought she was acting. But seeing how helpless and broken she looked threw into shock how immature _I _had been, making love in our room without her permission, while her own relationship fell apart just a room away.

"Yvonne I'm, I'm sorry. About," I glanced back at my bed.

I _should_ be feeling guilty right now, I knew. Was _knowing_ you should feel guilty the same as feeling guilty? I didn't think I was feeling anything at the moment except exhaustion.

"Ja well," Yvonne shrugged. "I'm sorry you had to hear all of that out there." She began taking off her jewelry and putting it away. "So pancakes, you said?" she asked in a light voice.

"Yah…" I peeked again through the door. Ugarte was gone. I moved into the kitchen to lock and bolt the door. "Yah, pancakes." With effort, I managed to keep my voice light, keep it from cracking. "My little sister taught me how."

* * *

**A/N: Drabble, my apologies. Next chapter will have more action. (Insomuch as a noir/drama can _have_ "action.") **

**Ugarte is also getting a disproportionate amount of attention in this story. Don't worry; in another couple of chapters he'll be dead, and out of the way.  
**


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